Someday
by selizabethharrisburg
Summary: *An exploration/expression of my feelings after a student suicide at my high school. Involves dark/traumatic content* After a Brooklyn newsie kills himself, Jack Kelly is left with a world in turmoil, including a traumatized Brooklyn leader. Jack never met the boy, but the death still hits him hard. And he knows for many grieving boys, it seems like it'll never get better.


**I wrote this story to explore and express my feelings after a recent student suicide at my high school. I didn't know the student, but I am very good friends with many students who knew him well. It's a complicated situation to be in, and this story is an exploration of that.**

 **This story features a child suicide and characters' reactions to that event. The suicide is not shown, but it is repeatedly mentioned and the story centers around the aftermath of this tragic death. If you are uncomfortable with this, please don't read this story.**

 **IF YOU ARE CONSIDERING SELF-HARM AND/OR SUICIDE, PLEASE GET HELP. Your life is important and you matter. You are a valuable and wonderful member of the human race. If you are contemplating suicide, please call 1-800-273-8255 if you are currently in America, 1-866-531-2600 if you are in Canada, 13-11-14 if you are in Australian (or 000 if your life is in immediate danger), or 525-510-2550 if you are in Mexico. If your country is not on the list, Google search "[country] crisis hotline". YOU ARE IMPORTANT AND YOUR LIFE MATTERS.**

Some mornings, Jack reflected dully, sitting with his legs hanging limply off of the rickety balcony outside Spot Conlon's room in the Brooklyn newsies' Lodging House, you could tell something was off. It was clear from the moment the sun peeked above the horizon that not everything was exactly the way it should be. Some days were like that. But not today. Not _this_ day. Not the day he'd been shaken to his core by something he hadn't known he cared about, made to cry because of someone he hadn't known existed.

It had started off well enough. Better than well enough, actually. Frankly, it had been a great day. Jack had bought himself a hundred and fifty papers, anticipating that the crisp air and not-quite-warm, not-quite-chilly weather of mid-April in New York City would attract plenty of customers. And he'd been quite right. More than right, in fact; Jack had easily sold all of his papes by three o'clock.

And so, with nothing else to do, Jack headed over to Jacobi's. Hopefully, he reasoned, some of the other newsies would have finished early too. They'd have a few hours to mess around in the deli before Jacobi shooed them out to prepare for the evening's customers, and the newsies hurried off to snag what food they could. With such easy selling as today's, they could easily pay for food; but that was far beside the point. Why buy the food if you could steal it and get it for free? Especially if you were as talented a pickpocketer as most of Jack's boys were.

Sure enough, when Jack arrived at Jacobi's, there were several other boys already there. Les was busy challenging Race in a game of rock-paper-scissors, and Davey was pouring over what appeared to be a textbook. Jack wrinkled his nose; trust Davey to study his precious books on a day off. Albert and Finch were in a corner quietly chatting, but they looked up at once when Jack walked in.

Jack couldn't help but grin as he was greeted by the boys' cries of welcome. Even Davey looked up to give him a smile, and Jack cracked a grin back at Les's brother. Les himself looked up into Jack's eyes, his own dark brown orbs dismayed.

"Jack, he's beatin' me!" the ten-year-old complained, nudging Race, who smirked at Jack. As if to demonstrate, Les tapped Race's shoulder and counted off another game of rock-paper-scissors. Race put down scissors to Les's paper, winning the game easily; and Les's smile fell.

"Come on, Race." Jack plopped down on the table next to the older boy. "You ain't lettin' him win even a little?"

Race looked up at Jack incredulously. "It takes as much effort to try'n lose rock-paper-scissors as it does to try'n win!" he protested. "It ain't like I'm tryin' ta murder a little kid!"

Les made a face at the phrase _little kid_ , but shook it off and quickly counted off another game. This time he played rock, but Race played paper and beat him again. In sheer frustration, Les pounded a fist against the table.

"Why – can't – I – ever – "

Over the sounds of the boy's tirades, Jack gave Race a pointed look. Race's mouth fell open in amused shock. "I was tryin' to lose that time!" he insisted, ignoring Jack's exasperated eye roll. "It's just hard!"

Jack laughed, pulling a few coins out of his pocket and debating whether he had enough money to get a seltzer from Jacobi or whether plain water would be better. With a shrug, he decided to spring for the seltzer and, dropping two pennies into his hand, hopped up from his perch on the table.

"Hey!" Race's shout made Jack jerk around and search the other boy's face in slight annoyance. Race's features softened at the other boy's impatience, and he counted out two pennies of his own with a smirk. "Get me one too."

Jack couldn't contain his eye roll, but he took Race's money anyways and walked over to where Jacobi was standing. A few moments later he was back, with two seltzers – one for him and Race each – and a glass of water for Les, who immediately began a rant about how he was never allowed to get seltzer himself. Jack giggled. He knew perfectly well that Davey didn't like the little boy drinking fizzy substances, but he also knew that Les had been hoping Jack would slip up and buy him a seltzer as well.

For a full half-hour it was fine. Jack and Race sat sipping their seltzers as Les left his water stubbornly untouched. Race beat Les several more times at rock-paper-scissors; then he challenged Jack to a game of poker. Davey watched over Jack's shoulder, silently strategizing and whispering tips in the other boy's ear; Les spent the game walking around and examining both players' hands, giggling whenever either boy made a bad choice.

But then it changed. And suddenly the day wasn't so cheerful anymore.

It was Romeo who burst into Jacobi's, barely holding back tears. At once Jack was up and rushing to the twelve-year-old's side with a cry and grasping the younger boy in a tight embrace. "Romeo! What's wrong?"

Romeo didn't answer, and Jack felt himself getting more and more nervous. Had the boy had a run-in with the Delanceys? With _Snyder_? Had someone stolen his money?; had someone hurt him?; had someone –

"Brooklyn," Romeo choked out suddenly, and Jack felt his blood run cold. He tensed, fury replacing the chills as suddenly as they had come. If Spot Conlon had laid _one hand_ on any of his boys, if he'd said _one word_ to Romeo –

But then the little boy continued. "Speedy – dead," he gasped through sobs, shaking in Jack's embrace. "He – a gun – and Spot – I can't –" The words were detached fragments, forced out through sobs, shudders, and gasps.

"Romeo," Jack breathed in sudden horror, grasping the boy's shoulders firmly and looking into his eyes. "Please. Tell me what's wrong."

Romeo visibly swallowed, and lowered his head, tears cascading from his eyes. "I don't understand," he choked, shaking. "How – how he's gone."

"Romeo…"

"I _knew_ him! When I was little we was in the Refuge together. He _helped_ me! I haven't seen him much in a few years, but I's _knew_ him, Jack!"

"Romeo!" Jack was almost screaming in desperation. "Tell me what happened! Tell me what's wrong!"

"He's dead!" Romeo cried bluntly, going limp in Jack's arms. "He's dead, Jack, and he ain't comin' back!"

At once Jack's hold on the younger boy tightened. Loss… death… it was hard. Hard to deal with. Hardest most for the youngest of the newsies. And even though Jack didn't still quite understand what had happened to Speedy, he understood the pain Romeo was suffering through.

"Come on," the older boy said gently, leading Romeo over to a bench and forcing him to sit down. "Sit. Relax."

"I – how? Relax how?" Romeo cried. He was now becoming hysteric, shaking and crying. His voice had risen an octave from its normal pitch.

Jack suddenly heard the door swing close. Davey had taken Les and left. And Jack would eternally be grateful for that. Les didn't need to be here.

"Speedy's dead!" It was all Romeo could choke out. He was trembling badly and Jack wasn't going to get any more information from him.

And so Jack turned to Race.

"Get him to the Lodging House," he ordered. "It's five, it's late enough. Get him food, keep him near you. Don't press him. Just be there."

Race nodded, his face, for once, deadly serious. He put a gentle hand around the twelve-year-old's shoulders. "It's okay, Rome. We're goin' back now. Just stay with me, okay?"

Jack watched Race lead the boy out with a slightly proud smile; his second-in-command had such talent with younger kids. But then Jack felt the smile drop from his face, and he stood up and barged out of the door himself. He had a place to be.

And it wasn't Manhattan.

"Kelly." The boy's voice was harsh. "What're you doin' here?"

"I need to talk to Spot." Jack's voice was clear, calm. "Please let me talk to Spot, Jingles."

"Spot's busy." The sixteen-year-old's voice held no emotion.

"Come on!" Jack was getting impatient, staring at Brooklyn's second-in-command. "Let me talk ta him!"

"He's _busy_! He ain't got time to talk ta the likes of you!"

And suddenly that was too much. At once Jack threw the boy against the wall of the alley they were standing in. "Jingles, one of my boys just came in, sobbing, hysterical, out of his mind, sayin' that one of your boys is dead! And I need to talk ta Spot, okay? I gotta! For Ro – for my kid, for Spot, for me, all right? So let me through!"

Jingles's face took on a slight smile. "Oh, so this is about Speedy?"

Jack was taken aback. "I – yes. You knew him well… right?"

Jingles giggled slightly. "Yeah."

Jack raised a fist. "Why the laughs, Jingles? He's _dead_. One of your boys is _dead_ , and you're giggling?"

Jingles's face fell at that. "I – it hasn't sunk in yet, okay? This feels surreal. A dream. A _nightmare_. I'm gonna wake up, I know it. 'Cept I ain't. And it ain't feel real yet, okay? So that's why I'm laughin', Jack. Now leave me alone."

The sixteen-year-old pulled himself from Jack's grip and started to turn away, before suddenly spinning to face the Manhattan boy. "Follow me."

"What? Wh – ?"

"To Spot. You said ya wanted ta see him, right? Follow me."

Spot, as the Brooklyn leader, had his own room in the Lodging House. But when Jack got there, Spot's door was closed firmly and the window that led to his balcony was covered with what looked to be a bedsheet. Jingles looked the boy up and down as the pair stood outside the closed door.

"If he'll let you in, you go in. If not, you go away. Understand?"

Jack nodded nervously. "I do."

"Good luck." And Jingles left.

Jack was alone outside the door, trying to summon up the courage to knock. _Raise your fist. There, that's it. Put it on the door – no, come on, Jack! Come on! Okay, there you go. Now knock. Good. One, two – harder! Three, four, five. Good, that's enough._

Jack withdrew his hand, shaking. Nothing to do now but –

"What?"

Jack jumped. The Brooklyn leader's voice sounded tough and harsh. But Jack had been around enough upset boys to know when someone was just pretending to be okay.

Jack closed his eyes. "Spot? It – it's me, Jack. From 'Hattan. I gotta talk ta you."

"About what?" The boy's voice was curt. Angry.

"'Bout… 'bout somethin' one a my boys said ta me. 'Bout one a your kids. Speedy."

There was a long pause. "Jack?" Spot said slowly, a slight tremor in his voice suddenly.

"Yeah?"

A long pause, a sigh. "Come in."

And Jack pushed the door open slightly, at once met with a sight that would never leave his mind for as long as he lived.

Spot Conlon, the fearsome Brooklyn leader, was sitting on the edge of his bed, his feet listlessly hanging off the end. His face was pale and ashen. His head was dropped into his hands, and he didn't look up when the door was opened. He just sat there, so still, not moving a muscle. His eyes were closed, his face cradled in his strong palms that suddenly didn't look so strong anymore. Barely strong enough to hold up the face of a grieving teenager who had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Jack stepped slowly towards the bed, not too loud and not too fast. He gently shut the door behind him; he thought he'd been nearly silent, but Spot flinched slightly at the click. Jack swallowed and kept moving towards the bed.

He was standing there for a good ten seconds before he asked, so quietly, "Can I sit?"

Spot didn't move for what seemed like forever. Finally he gave one short, clipped nod. Jack pursed his lips and slowly lowered himself to sit next to the boy.

Silence for a minute. Then, finally…

"Spot?" Jack asked, so soft it was nearly inaudible.

Spot didn't acknowledge in any way that Jack had spoken, but Jack was sure the other boy had heard him. So he quietly continued. "Are you okay?"

Spot just sat there. And then, slowly, he shook his head. "No."

That answer rocked Jack to his core. Never once had Spot admitted any sort of weakness, even the slightest vulnerability. And now here he was saying that he wasn't okay.

 _What happened?_

"I… I heard about Speedy," Jack said quietly. "Romeo came in… cryin' and all."

Spot didn't answer for a long time. But he did. After nearly a minute.

"How much did Romeo tell you?"

Jack shrugged. "Not much. He… he couldn't get the words out. Just that… he's dead."

"Did he tell you how?" The response was slightly quicker that time, but Spot was still leaving a lot of silence hanging in the air.

Jack shook his head before realizing Spot wasn't looking at him. "No."

When he spoke, Spot's voice was dull. "He was shot."

Jack flinched as a tremor ran through him. _Shot?_ That… that wasn't a pleasant way to go. Deaths from sickness and disease were tragic and meant months of mourning, but at least they were anticipated. Expected. A shooting… that was out of nowhere.

Jack swallowed. "By who?"

The pause Spot took seemed to last forever. But finally he said it. "By himself."

Jack rocked back in complete shock. _Shot. By himself._ He found himself at a loss for words. Never – _never_ – had the newsies of any New York City borough experienced a suicide. How did you deal with that, as a leader?

Spot let out a deep breath. "I didn't even know him that well. He only started sellin' with us a few months ago, and even then it wasn't every day. He slept in the Lodgin' House sometimes, not always. But… but…" Spot exhaled, thinking. "He was always laughing. Always seemed so cheerful. Got along with everyone."

Jack wanted desperately to reach out and put a hand on Spot's shoulders, but he was sure the gesture wouldn't be taken well. So he settled for saying, "Spot… you know… there wasn't anything to let you know…"

Spot shook his head. "We found his diary. Afta'. And… what he wrote.…" Spot let out a sigh. "Looking back, it's clear. He was considering it. But we just had no way of knowing. It was out of nowhere."

Jack sighed. "Spot, let's go outside," he said.

Spot raised his head now and fixed Jack with a glare. His eyes, Jack noted with a shock, were rimmed with red. "You don't tell me what to do, Kelly," he growled.

Jack drew back a little. "I… no. But I think it'd be nice to go out on the balcony. Get some fresh air."

Spot dropped his head back to his hands. But finally – finally – he nodded slightly. "Fine."

"Then come on." The words were gentle. Jack stood up and, after a few seconds, Spot did too.

"Let's go." Jack walked over to the balcony door, drew back the curtains, and led Spot out onto the rickety metal apparatus. Spot walked to the edge, standing dangerously close and peering down, and Jack panicked for a moment; but Spot sat down soon enough, his legs swinging out over the edge.

Spot looked up when Jack sat down next to him; then his gaze returned to his hands.

"His laugh was contagious," the Brooklyn leader said quietly. "Once he's got ta laughin', the rest a' the boys are in hysterics 'fore I can figure out what's funny. Half the times they's don't know either. His smile could light up a room."

Jack swallowed. "And he… he just…"

"He shot himself, Kelly. Jingles brought me his diary. I can't… he… there was a lot of stuff 'bout death in there. It's obvious he was plannin' this."

Jack flinched, and now he felt tears swim into his eyes.

"Tell me more about him."

Spot sighed. "He was the best seller of us all. 'Cept me. He could push seventy-five on a bad day. Made up the craziest headlines, but the thing was, they were always somewhat true. He'd take a story about a fire drill and say somethin' like 'Police fire trucks rush out with sirens blaring at ten o'clock to address situation'. Which wasn't wrong. The trucks did go out to address somethin', just that somethin' was a drill. But customers could never get mad at him, really. He was adorable. Fifteen, but adorable."

Jack lowered his gaze. "Spot, I… I understand." But then he flinched. He didn't. "No, I… I don't. I didn't know him like you did, I can't understand what you're going through. I… just, if there's anything I can do…"

"Why, Jack?" Spot looked up at the Manhattan boy, his eyes red and wet. "Why does death happen? How is he just _gone_? How can we hold a minute of silence for him, and _he doesn't know_? How is a _person_ – such a unique, individual, creative, complicated, multifaceted thing – just _gone_? Speedy was a miracle. We _all_ are. Such a unique combination of personality and physical traits, and it's _gone_. That special mixture of attributes will never happen again, and it never happened before. Speedy was a miracle. And now he's _gone_. Not when he should be. Too early."

Jack looked down, suddenly not having any idea what to say. "Spot…"

"He was a mystery," Spot said, not seeming to have heard Jack. "I met him when he was fourteen. Five months ago. He sold maybe three, four days a week. 'Ats when he slept with us. Other days… I have no idea where he was. But 'e always came back cheerful. Laughin' and smilin' and whatnot." Spot sighed. "The little ones loved him. He knew all their names."

Jack gave a tiny smile. "I bet he must've loved 'em so much, too."

"He did." Spot nodded. "It was very obvious."

There was silence for a while, companionable silence. But a question was brewing in Jack's mind, and he couldn't hold it back much longer. So, slowly, hesitantly, he asked, "Spot? What… what did his diary say?"

Spot shrugged. "It… it was just a lot of stuff about death. Thinkin' about it, imaginin' it. He… Once, he said nobody would miss him if he was gone." Spot's voice broke then. "And that's so untrue, Jack. We miss 'im like hell."

Jack nodded. What else could he say? "I know, Spot. I know."

Spot sighed. He just sat there, looking at the ground dozens of feet below, then looking back at his legs. As if he were contemplating something. And Jack didn't like what that something was.

"Spot," Jack said, somewhat urgently now, and the boy looked up. "Promise me you won't hurt yourself. Or kill yourself."

Spot shook his head. "I won't, Kelly. I wouldn't. You should know that."

Jack nodded, but he wasn't done. "Brooklyn _needs_ you, Spot. The littles look up ta you so much. Promise you'll stay."

Spot rolled his eyes. "I ain't goin' nowhere, Kelly," he said. "I ain't that dumb." An exhalation, then: "Just sad."

Jack nodded. "I gotcha."

"It's just… it'd all be so much better if he was alive," Spot said softly. "All of it."

And Jack could do nothing but murmur words of agreement, of assent, of comfort. But he couldn't really comfort the boy. Not the way Spot needed it.

After a few more minutes of silence, Spot got up and walked back to the door, letting himself back inside. Jack followed him, closing the door that Spot had left open for him once he was inside. Spot was sitting on his bed again.

"Spot," Jack said carefully. "I'm gonna go now, okay? Leave you to your own."

Spot nodded listlessly.

"But… come over if ya ever wanna talk, okay?" Jack urged. "Send a boy over. Come to me. I'll be here, okay?"

Spot just jerked his head. "All right, Kelly."

Jack took that as his cue to leave, heading towards the door. But something stopped him suddenly, and he turned back, facing Spot.

"It doesn't feel like it'll ever get better," he said bluntly. "It feels like it'll always feel like a knife. And, yes, you'll always remember it, but… Spot? It'll get better. You'll let it go. You'll learn to laugh again. And it's - it's _not_ betraying him, Spot. He… would want you to laugh."

Spot stared hard at Jack, eyes rimmed red. "It'll get better," he repeated, but his tone was tinged with skepticism. Like it was a question, not an affirmation.

But at least he'd said it.

"Yes, Spot. I promise you." Jack ran a hand through his hair. "Not today, maybe. Not tomorrow. But someday. I _promise_."

Spot nodded and took a shaky breath in. Jack gave him a look and then left the room, shutting the door softly behind him. But he still heard the last word fall off of Spot's tongue, hanging in the air with trepidation, with doubt, with grief, and with maybe just a touch of hope.

"Someday…"


End file.
